Love and Hate
by AlFlowerrise
Summary: It makes the emotions start burning. — NearMello. Collection. They are black and white and simply fit together.
1. Why

NA: This is gonna be ten small stories about MelloNear that are right now just collecting dust in my computer and I might as well upload these. Maybe someone out there will like them :)

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><p><strong>Love and Hate<strong>

It makes the emotions start burning — NearMello

Ficlet

—|—

I

**Why**

"Near?"

"Yes?"

"I don't get it."

"What is it that you don't get, Mello?"

"This," he blurts out and a white breath escapes from his stiff lips. "This fucking attraction to you. I'm not supposed to feel this way, you know. Why you of all people?"

Near leans closer and places his small hands on leathered shoulders, tilting his head forward so his cold-as-ice forehead touches Mello's throat. "You do understand that not everything has a reason? You can compare this to the physics' laws. Strange comparison but it follows the similar pattern; we believe that Newton's laws are true but how can we be so certain? Maybe we have lived in a lie all along and we have to start from the beginning again."

"Where the hell are you going with this?"

Near looks up with that wicked smile plastered on his abnormally cute face, a smile he only spares for Mello, for one single person in the world. "There is a point in my speech."

"Well duh, but I don't bother to see it."

Mello places one of his gloved hands in Near's hank of white locks, bending his face to one side so Mello can kiss the loose skin on his throat. Faint apples flash on his cheeks and he coils like a worm, which only makes Mello's possessive threats grow larger and he tilted Near' face back until he can face large, black eyes deeper than wells, more beautiful than the most rare gemstones, cold but emotional.

"Mello, it's not polite to interrupt me in a middle of a conversation," Near states matter-of-factly and straightens his lips to a thin line, looping one finger around his locks. Mello lets one of his hands run down his hair down to the smooth curve of his shoulder. Near may look expressionless and empty as a teenager's wallet but Mello isn't stupid, he knows Near, he knows Near so much his ace-card doesn't work.

He knows Near. He needs Near. He craves for Near.

"It's not like you have anything important to say anyway."

"Mello, don't be ridiculous, you must have some insight in what exactly we are doing."

"Yeah," he murmurs and runs a hand through his blonde hair. "But I choose not to think about it."

"That's unwise."

"What the hell?"

Near looks down at the floor which is covered by a thick layer of brown dirt running in small rivers between cracks. "In the end isn't it about catching Kira?"

Mello loops his fingers around Near's wrist to make him stop toying with his hair. "How the fuck is this related to Kira?"

"Don't act stupid, Mello, you know where I'm heading. I don't say I don't have feelings for you because I do have feelings for you, strong feelings." Hearing him saying it like that, with that monotone voice that sounds like a radio makes it sound so wrong, like it doesn't mean anything. "But it started with a race to catch Kira. You want to win and your desire is so strong you chose not to work with me but working alone."

"_Please_, don't bring that up. It was a hundred years ago."

"No, it wasn't," Near says, still immune to any dose of sarcasm. "You are fully aware that this puts you in a dangerous situation, ignoring the Kira-case with all its risks and spend time with me instead."

"You don't want me to like you?"

Near signs and tries to pull away from Mello's grip but to no avail. For hell Mello is going to release him now or he might never see him again. Near is complicated, like an equation without a solution, blurry and obscurely, melting inside the wallpaper with emotions impossible to read. But Mello needs him, he really does need him like he never has needed anything before. "I never implied that, Mello."

"You know, you should trust me more."

Near clips his eyes. "Yes?"

"You think I'm an idiot. Yes, you do," he growls when Near tries to argue, "and it pisses me off. I know you truly are L's successor according to L himself but I'm number two. I'm not stupid. I know what I'm doing." He wraps one arm around Near's shoulders and pulls him closer again, breaking the distance until skin touches skin. Smooth fingers moves across the round jaw-line, he smiles and kisses the cheek, before moving closer to Near's extremely adorable lips. "You're just a bitch to me because I make you _feel_. I can feel your desire, feel your thirst. You don't like it, admit it."

"It's true," Near murmurs but allows Mello to catch his lips between his own. "However… I… think… Mello, I _can't _talk when you're doing that."

"Fair enough. I hate your ramble," he whispers softly and tilts Near's head backwards so he can deepen the kiss and enjoy the bright flush starting on the bridge of Near's nose walking down to his cheeks. "But I'm damn addicted to your kisses."

Near smiles slightly and Mello can't prevent himself—Near sitting there with cheeks like a child and eyes filled with emotions is like a ventilator soon overfilled and is gonna pour out and ruin everything. Mello nips on Near's under-lip, before forcing his tongue in, taste the essence of Near, feel him, lick him. Near's taste is impossible to describe; it's like nothing and everything glued together and Mello doesn't really care, he only craves.

_Kira_. _Kira is still out there. _

Hell, he fucking _knows_. He doesn't have time for this but what can he do when he's addicted to a drug that doesn't hurt him? He is black and Near is white but they want the same thing. They want to win and their similarities—and differences—make them blend like acrylic paint. He wants to know why but understands that there is no answer. He wants to comprehend and Near wants to back off but they both fail. This is their lives now, this is what they have.

Near snakes his arms around Mello's chest and leans closer, mouth still tightly locked. A Near with emotion is like a Kira with a heart, it's unbelievable and elaborated. He needs Near and that's everything he has to play with.

"Near, I don't fucking understand," he whispers and wipes away a lock from Near's forehead. "Why Near? Why?"

"I have no answer," Near replies. "I don't assume there are any."

"Yeah," he says and nothing more. Letting it out and lets the silence place its cloth over them, until they shove back the reality and replace it with a fairytale that probably doesn't even exist.

_He has to catch Kira. _

_Instead he kisses his worst enemy._

_Just why?_

_—|— _

to be continued


	2. Can't

NA: Numero dos! I'm really glad some of you like these little stories! :D And please ask me if it is something that confuses you! And oh, I forgot! I don't own Death Note.

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><p><strong>Love and Hate<strong>

—|—

II

_Can't_

_No. _

Of course I don't fucking want him.

_Yes. _

Yes, I don't want him but that doesn't mean I don't need him.

How it came to this, you may wonder, and I have no answer. It just happened, I guess, like almost every coincidence slipping through your mind and just appears when it feels like it. I'm fully aware that I hated him and some parts of me still do hate him. What is there not to hate, his robotic mind treating emotions like they're some fucking equations on the whiteboard, to his selfish mind that never allows me to walk inside his personal bubble and see _him _and not the one he pretends to be, to his white pajama-jacket and white socks representing he doesn't care about anything at all? He's fifteen but acts like a child, believes that others will take care of him and no one but I will. Just looking at his cute, innocent face and black portal eyes makes blood run under my skin and force the fist forward. I want to kill him. He's the replica of a person not caring about feelings and promises and gifts given and taken and it's stupid how my life got intertwined with his in the beginning because we simply do not belong together. I'm not solely referring to the Kira-case—that case is only a cover we hide under—but everything. Our life is a race and he always wins. He's smarter than me, he's more controlled than me, he's more well-behaved than me. People respect him like they never could respect me. I have friends and he doesn't but he doesn't even care. Being alone is him and not me. Those victories never mean a thing.

Still, I wonder if our complete different personalities are the key that makes us blend so well. I can never feel like this with someone else and that simple little fact feels like forcing down razors through my throat because I damn well deserve someone better than him. He probably just uses me as a tool to declare to a new musing I never have—and don't want—access to. His life is a game and the people around him his pieces. I am too and it makes me see red—blood-red— but still I choose to play along because I can't stand the fact that he will leave me. That's right, that's how sad the situation is. I don't want him to leave me.

_Him, him, him_.

Near. Stupid Near. I hate Near. I hate everything with Near.

_I hate that he makes me feel like this. Naked. Exposed. Drowning in my own shame and bringing my commitment to the edge. _

A life without him doesn't exist. A life with him is hell. Is it so fucking strange that my migraine punches through my head and makes yellow dots dance in front of my eyes and even the customary taste of cacao does nothing to push me right back on the field again? Chocolate can't replace Near. Nothing can replace Near. Near is not exchangeable but he's also a product no one else wants so he's stuck with me. I don't really know what he feels for me as he rather plays with his toys than flash me his mind and our relationship is so worn out I don't even bother to try to analyze his mind and he doesn't even bother trying to understand me.

It doesn't work, both know this, but I still want. I need him and that's that, that's how it is. Denying is futile, thinking that something will change, something because it doesn't. This is how it is. When I push him away he comes back.

Near.

"Near," I say and cup my rough hands around his smooth cheeks, increasing the distance but still don't let him slip away from me. He isn't allowed to escape from me, he changed my opinion about him and now he has to pay the price. "Tell me. Do you love me?"

Near narrows his eyes and places his hands around my wrists. "Don't you comprehend I'm not going to answer that question?" _Besides, that question is very uncharacteristic of you_. He doesn't say it but I have the ability to read everything— which is a lot— he doesn't tell me. And no, it's not an ability I'm proud of.

"Why?"

"Words are empty and I don't want to give you empty promises."

"For hell," I hiss and pull him closer so that I can feel his cold breath touch me. "I want to fucking understand."

"Comprehension is never a certain thing," Near says with his monotone voice and lays his palms on my shoulders.

"What do you want to say with that?"

"Oh," he smirks and I straight my lips to a thin line. "Nothing."

"Near!"

He circles his arms around my throat, the smirk never leaving, cold lips bruising across my skin. I sink my shoulders and embrace him too, pulling him towards me.

Yeah, this is our life, this is our relationship. He uses me and I don't know for what. We (I) argue and we will never get anywhere and somehow I think this is okay.

And I follow him. Follow him until the road ends and he slips away from my grip. Someday he will. This can never be the love described in those sappy fairytales with knights in shining armors and princesses in pink dresses and in all honestly it doesn't really matter. I like it rough, black, with sharp edges and life never certain. One day might be the last, one day might be the end. Still, I have become a piece in his game and I can't escape. I'm his and he can do whatever he wants with me.

His small body becomes heavy like a sack filled with sand and his arms slide down to my waist and settle there while he buries his nose in the pocket between my throat and shoulder as he floats away to dream-world I will never understand.

He's unusually clingy today and I can't help but to see it like he wants to take the equation in his head to another level, reach somewhere— in the end this isn't about love on his side because he can't love. He can solve and he can reason but he can't love. I'm only a pillar he relies on as he doesn't have the will to walk down the road alone. He wants to fight, he wants to make me mad, he wants to press me in the swamp, that smug little bastard, but he doesn't want to love me.

"Near, I don't fucking want you drooling on me," I say calmly and shakes his head. Sleepy eyes that can melt iron look back at me and he's so damn cute I just want to throw responsible and value-systems to Hell and kiss him so hard and make skin feel skin and dance the never-ending dance that is our life. I don't of course, I will never give him something he doesn't deserve but there is something about his adream appearance and rosy cheeks that make the naïve parts of my brain to think he has changed. It's futile, Near will _never _change. Neither will I. I won't change myself, it's he who changes me.

"Mhm?" he murmurs and a thin tread of saliva slips through his adorable lips, rubbing his eyes with his right palm. "You're comfortable, Mello."

I flinch. What is this? What the hell does he want? "Don't toy with me, Near. That doesn't work."

"Why does Mello assume I always toy with him when I give him a compliment?" he asks and buries his head in my chest, treating me like I am some kind of pillow.

"Because you do."

"No. Only because I don't want to say _I love you _doesn't mean I don't."

"You don't love me," I say matter-of-factly and moves my fingers across his white curls. "And that's fine because I fucking hate you."

I can feel his smile across the fabric of my shirt. "Hate is a harsh word, Mello."

"I still hate you." _I still l-l-l…_

I don't think this will work. I can never know with Near and not knowing is like trying to paint without a pensile—you don't get anywhere. He makes me blind and that's probably his intention, leaving me unconscious with his white hands and ice-cold lips while he can focus on the Kira-case. And I let him.

_Because he makes me so fucking happy. _

I still don't want him. I will never want him. My mind is constructed to hate Near until black is the only color I see and blood stops flooding.

"Mello," he says after an eternity, toying with his hair. "I thought I didn't understand love. And I still don't when I'm not with you."

I don't want him but that doesn't mean I don't love him.

—|—

to be continued


	3. Massage

NA: What's wrong with me? I write this instead of doing homework. Typical. But on the other side, some of you might apprecirate this. Please tell me what you think! And oh, if you like to give me advice for future drabbles with these two darlings— I'm such a creepy fangirl— then tell me about it in a review and I will do something with it (: I like this one though and hope you do too!

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><p><strong>Love and Hate<strong>

**— **|—

III

Massage

Near hated massage. He didn't hate much things—he had learned to see things through the diminution-glass—but sitting on a plastic chair, with shoulders strictly locked and feel a stranger—his classmates were really nothing more to him—touch him with sharp nails was torture. Physical contact wasn't anything he was too fond of, of the contrary it frightened him and it was of that unexplainable, odd kind where you didn't understand why but the results were always the same.

Predictable. Near used to like that. He didn't now.

He sat leaned to the wall and watched his teacher ms Rose, a airhead that liked showing off her suntanned legs in a too short skirt and paint her fully lips blood-red, moved the chairs in a plastic green color in a circle in the middle of the square-shaped room, whistling a tune to herself and acted oblivious to all the stares following her like a tail. Near looped a finger through his nestle of hair and wished he could melt to a puddle and swim away through the thin cracks in the floor, escape, run away. There was no need for him to be here.

Warm hands, soft fingers, those things meant nothing to him, those things only created an unpleasant burn under his porcelain skin. No one understood, no one comprehend and he could never tell anyone. They wouldn't listen, this was the world he lived in, where social intercourses meant everything and maybe they did but not for him.

He gnawed on one of this broken nail-bed in a perfect imitation of L when the teacher stopped pushing chairs around and stopped in the middle, lifting one hand to gain the attention no one wanted to give her. Near caught himself wishing he could curl up in the red carpet and sleep through this class. It would have been more pleasant than this meaningless occupation.

Normal, normal, normal. He was normal. He was sensible to contact, it was not strange, it was not uncanny, it was (not) normal. Near gnawed more intensely on the nail until he could feel the metallic taste of blood on his tongue and for some unknown reason he found himself gazing at blonde bangs hanging in front of a rather pretty—you couldn't expect more vivid and colorful compliments from him—face, which belonged to a boy with the name Mello that didn't seem to enjoy this more than Near did. Of course, massaging wasn't anything for a boy that was eager to grow up and try out all the bad things the world had in store for him. Still, he had something, had a burning inside that pale skin and for the first time in life Near felt envy because he would never be alive, he would be the boy trapped inside the fort he had built around him and if wasn't completely his fault but mostly it was. He had trapped himself and no one wanted to help him.

Especially not Mello. Mello didn't like him. Mello hated him.

That was what he said.

Mello unwrapped the foil from his chocolate bar and snapped one bar with his teeth, licking it with his pink tongue which would have sent a sensual thrill down your spin if you name didn't start with N and end with –ear. And Near was Near and Mello didn't mean a thing.

"Mello, you and Near will work together."

It was only fate's evil-minded surprises and inability to understand his emotions that made ms Rose pair Mello with Near. Near played more furiously with his hair while Mello's light-blue eyes narrowed slightly while he bit off another bar of the chocolate, tossing the ball of foil in the trash-bag in the corner.

Not Mello. Please not Mello. Anyone but Mello.

The god's in the sky decided not to listen to him today. Not that they ever had.

Mello stood for everything Near wanted to avoid, to pull under the cloth and pretend it didn't exist. Mello was rash, his emotions were like an over-filled bottle which content poured out from the bottle-neck to the glass-table, he was alive and he was beautiful and Near was just… _Near_. And being a Near was never enough in Mello's world. In anyone's world. Near was nothing.

"Get up, idiot," Mello said when he had approached Near, licking off the chocolate from his lips with that still bored glance in his eyes. The tone was more mild than usual, sounding more like a radio-program with horrible reception, a voice filled with nothing that Near couldn't touch. Near looked up and then stood up on his fragile legs that barely knew how to walk, trembling and weak, like a string soon cut. He refused to look Mello in the eyes—Mello didn't like him and he wasn't going to waste time with someone that only saw him through the sunglasses—and stared forward, to the chair, saw the scratches from sharp nails on the material and walked closer, placing his hand on the back of the ungracious chair.

Did he have to do this?

"Who will start?" Mello asked, moving his slender fingers through those golden bangs, eyes tired and bored.

Near considered the question and found out he wasn't going to slip away from this torture which direction he decided to take. "You?" he answered with his dead voice and received an irritated glare from Mello, who slipped on the chair and crossed his legs. Near gulped and wondered why Mello couldn't have worn a long-sleeved shirt so that he didn't have to touch bare skin. Bare skin meant conclusive contact and it wasn't a possibility, however he couldn't get away now. Near was a good boy (sometimes) and followed orders, because what else could he do? Orders were usually simple, but not now. Not now.

"Stop fucking stand there and dream and begin," Mello hissed, low so the teacher couldn't hear him and curse the bad language. Mello's voice always sounded like the lightning was soon there and ran the wire to the bomb. It was interesting to listen to when you weren't the target, which Near almost always was. Like a slap in the face, present and there, unpleasant but alive.

Near gulped—why did it have to be Mello?—and then placed his hands on those slim shoulders, felt warm skin beneath his fingertips and some fragile parts of Near—that worked after the robotic time-line—felt like they were going to burst and sip down like rain. He tried to move his fingers back and forth but the skin felt like stiff paste—he couldn't get through. Mello leaned backwards with his head and Near could hear Matt—Mello's best friend—snicker from the other side of the room at Near's pathetic attempt of bringing pleasure with his bare hands.

Did that sound wrong? Never mind.

"What the fuck is this?" Mello wanted to know after about one minute had gone to thin air and couldn't be replaced. "_Touch me_, for God's sake. I'm not plague-infested."

Near plucked back a little to the harsh words and then regained his balance, replacing his hands on Mello's shoulders again. "I'm sorry. I have no talent in this apartment."

He knew Mello rolled his eyes even though he couldn't see it. "Is it hard to touch me?"

Yes, it was. It was very hard.

But fine, if Mello wanted it that way. He drilled his fingers deep down that hot skin with the blood swimming underneath and pressed so hard as he rubbed his fingers in circles his tips changed from soft pink to white. He moved sideways to the neck and trailed upwards before moving his hands through Mello's blonde hair. Usually his blonde hair—which was cut in a perfect page—was prohibited area and Near thought he would get a punch straight in the face for this crime but he didn't and after a while Mello turned his head and locked eyes with Near's, expression unreadable and eyes empty.

"That was pretty good," Mello said and then turned back so he couldn't see Near's small smile that he couldn't prevent creating. Compliments from the enemy always had a certain touch, like a candy you didn't want to spit out but to hide in the cheek. Mello's words gave him more courage and he tried something new. He swept his nails over the skin of Mello's arms, soft and felt when those thin flues stood up, then circled his fingers around one thin arm, kneading, touching, gave him everything Near hadn't give to anyone before. It felt okay. It did feel okay.

Near almost enjoyed it. Almost.

But the quarter passed by too fast and now it was Mello's turn. Near grew rigid again, frozen solid in the chair Mello pushed him down to, feelings he couldn't control danced in his head, spun him around. It was one thing to touch and another to get touched and he didn't wish to embarrass himself in front of Mello after the small thrill he had given Near.

It was too late.

When Near felt those warm palms on the thin fabric of his pajama-shirt he started to shiver, started to coil like a worm escaping from the fishing hook, the ventilator slammed open and everything escaped. Blood burning inside him, fighting, struggling and panic bubbled up in him and he glanced at the open door leading to the corridor—he needed to escape, he had to escape, he couldn't take this, he—

Mello removed his hands and snorted slightly. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

Near didn't answer, only let the silence cover the situation and hope Mello would go away. But Mello didn't, instead he placed one hand on Near's shoulder but didn't move it, only let it rest there and the sudden blob of hysteria toned. It surprised Near and he stared into the air as if it could give him the answer.

The air didn't but Mello did. "You know, you should let people touch you once in a while," Mello told him with his voice uncharacteristically soft. "You need it."

"I don't think I can agree with Mello there," Near answered, because it was true, he couldn't and Near was never the one to cover his true opinions.

A soft snort and another hand on his white shirt. "Of course not. Why agree to anything that I say?"

"I didn't mean it like that."

"Fucking hell you did."

Near wrinkled his nose at the harsh language but decided to say nothing more to keep Mello's temper intact. Question him was like running straight to the dragon with no weapons—to use a metaphor Matt would probably like—and Near was too intelligent for such a mistake.

He tensed again though when Mello tried to massage him again, like a tense guitar string that soon snapped and instead of stopping Mello moved one of his sharp nails up to Near's neck and made him struggle like a fish on the dry land. He could feel Mello's smirk from behind.

"Relax, Near," he purred in a voice that didn't make Near relax the slightest, but then the voice changed again, became soft like silk from Kina. "I think you need more massage after this class. I can help you."

It had to be a joke, it couldn't be true, it couldn't…

"You don't like me," Near stated and thinned his lips to a line as Mello worked with his unwilling skin.

"No, I never have stated otherwise, have I? Still, you're _adorable _when you're not an arrogant bastard."

Could Near please die now? His cheeks burned and he was lucky his hair was so thick or else he wouldn't have any left by now. He twinned and twinned but no matter how much he twinned he couldn't escape the fact that Mello had floored him today, completely.

"Besides," he whispered and touched Near's locks, "I can give you far more interesting massage than this crap when we are alone."

Near was far too oblivious to understand what that really meant but he understood enough to blush. More so because he couldn't deny that Mello was the only one that could touch him without sending him straight to the fire and maybe it was a tiny bit pleasant. Maybe.

"You don't like me," Near repeated and almost flinched as Mello touched his collarbones.

"Hell no I do," Mello smiled gently. "But I might when I'm done with you."

— |—

to be continued


	4. Paint

NA: I'm not too sure what you will think of this. Some parts of me like it, others think this is a little too OoC for Near, but I guess I can publish the chapter and hope some of you like it (: Thank you for reading and as usual, I don't own Death Note, if I did... hehehe, MelloNear... (Also, I want to write about Mello's massage session with Near but I cannot seem to get that right so please bear with this one until my muse decides to return. I wrote this one just to try getting it back and I hope it somewhat worked :))

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><p><strong>Love and Hate<strong>

—|—

IV

Paint

Your anger is like sharp paint mixed with the thin pencil strokes and it moves the painting to a whole new dimension. I know you don't appreciate those metaphors but I can't really stop using them because you are my paint and my muse and my bottle of inspiration and you always will, metaphoric and real.

I never hated you, Mello, and I never will. Hate is a strong word I believe but I can still comprehend why you use it as your fuel to burn down the walls and face new realities. It's your way of toying with fate and manipulate minds to make them follow you like puppies and obey your limitless will. It's interesting and I never fail to be amazed because that's something I can never reach. I don't understand people and they don't understand me and that's why your way is so special and filled with wonder and my deepest admiration. I admire your ways, Mello and I admire you but that's something I can never tell you. Compliments from me are empty for you, like turning the bowl and nothing happens and in some way I can comprehend that because I'm not the smooth kind. I don't want to be kind and I don't feel the need to be kind. However—which is a knot in this ball of twine I can't solve—with you it's different. Everything is different, like you can turn my brain with your fingers and make me see the world in color and not in black and white. I feel attached to you and I feel attached to your personality. I hope you'll never change because you are a living fire with flames licking away my sanity and it's a pleasant experience.

I don't understand why you do it and where you want it to lead but I do understand this: when you slam my body under you and place your hot lips on mine and lick my mouth and lick my essence it's like the mirror is going to crash and the pieces cut into me. I bleed but it's a pleasant bleeding, like purification, like exposing my inner soul and become human. You make me feel, Mello, you make me feel alive. I thought I was immune, like I was different but I'm not different with you. You make me normal. You make me thirst.

Our mouths are tightly interlocked as you roll around the floor, clawing my frail cheeks with your sharp nails and deepen the kiss, like you can't get deep enough, like you can't get enough from me. Sensation runs through me like cold fingers drumming up from my spine to my head and I moan softly—a sound I didn't believe my lips could form—and wrap my legs around your waist. Our kisses are a fight and our touches are like daggers; it hurts and I want to scream and evolve my wings and fly away until they can't carry me anymore, fly to you. I need you so much it frightens me and I know you're using that to your own selfish advantage but I find myself don't caring much because a life without you is exactly like a painting without color. It can be beautiful but it can't live. With you I'm red and blue and yellow and everything and nothing, a complete human being with a purpose that reaches farther than the Kira-case. I can never tell you that and I can never show you but I think you comprehend anyway. You make me weak and you can taste weakness in the air.

You taste chocolate and testosterone, you taste life in its fully extent and I smile the smile I can only create for you as you slam my head into the hard floor and mutter curses as you crash your teeth into mine. Your hands slip through the gape of my collar and down to my chest and oddly enough it feels okay. I want you to touch me. Your touch burns like coal and it's so wondrous and indescribable, like when you're watching a painting you don't understand yet it is so beautiful your soul pours out from your pores and you feel naked, exposed, afraid. You are like that painting, Mello, for you I'm only a toy you could play with. There's nothing normal about our relationship and that's why it's so beautiful, raw and full and everything.

"Mello," I say with my thin voice and reach my hands to your blonde hair. You don't pull away and let me touch your warm milfoils, moving my fingers in circles. "Mello. Mello…"

"Shut up, Near, I want you okay so let me fucking _feel _you," you hiss and kiss me again, nudging my lips and melt my defenses to thin soup. I close my eyes and do nothing more, only let you take me to dream-land I didn't know existed.

Mello, you're so pretty. I never thought I would find beauty in the human race but with you I do. You're strong and healthy and alive and everything I can never be and kissing you is like kissing life itself and it's everything. You blend with me and I blend with you and we float with the river to destination unknown.

We never say it—our relationship isn't much for words—but we still know it. You know it. I never hide it, not like you and when I can't hide behind complicated equations and solutions I'm like an open book, you can skip through the pages. You punch me and you kiss me. You shove me and you touch me. You damage me and you recover me. You kill me and you breathe me to life. Your anger makes you blind and while I only feel completed with you you may see me as your biggest enemy. It's okay, it really is because I rather have you this way than not at all. I know everything now and the everything starts with you. You're the paint and I will use you to create perfection. You make dreams reality and you make dreams colorful. You're everything and I'm nothing. Please stay with me and I will finish the painting for you. Kira will face justice and we will succeed, I promise.

_Promises are easily broken but this one isn't, it's deep engraved in stone and cannot be erased. _

Mello, you're like drugs, morphine, slipping through my throat and intoxicates my body and makes me so weak. I love it, Mello, I love it. I want to be addicted to you. You're something my toys never can be—you're _alive _and _powerful _and _beautiful_.

_Mello, I love you. I love when you create this interior bleeding called lust._

It is foreign.

—|—

to be continued


	5. Bus

NA: Mfeh, not my best. But I made a fic about an idea I had for so long. That's something! Also, I said for the beginning that this was a ten-fic story but I guess I will let this be ungoing until my ideas run out. So, if you want this to continue, give me ideas, please :) Also, this is AU-ish, Mello and Near haven't met before. The paying system on the bus is from Sweden, since I live there. It's probably not the same in London.

* * *

><p><strong>Love and Hate<strong>

—|—

V

Buses

Buses are strange.

Near knows that he is the only one with that opinion though.

Maybe that's another sign of his failure of following the normal code that is ingrained in the others, normal, done by habit, but not in him?

But what can Near do about it? Nothing. He can just see, just witness, and nothing more.

After three minutes standing in this rectangle-shaped vehicle with a temperature that makes his white shirt sticky against his skin, he knows that he does not like buses.

Mostly because of the abnormal crowd of different people he doesn't know and doesn't want to know.

"Hey, are ya gonna pay or what?" the bus driver interrupts Near's train of thought with his husky drawl, an accent impossible to locate, as it probably is another one of those accent used for gaining rank in the 'cool'-scale. Near digs in his pajama pants in search for the money needed for the short trip to the library deeper in the hellhole called London—at least these areas with street gangs and invisible rankings, fishes up the cold coins but as he opens his palm to give the money the older man stares at him with narrowed eyes and a network of wrinkles in his forehead.

Near takes a step back. He knows when he does wrong and—even though he doesn't understand _why_—he knows he has now.

"Is this not enough money?" he asks with his dry voice, moving a hand to play with his white locks, wishing he could be everywhere but here.

How comes these simple things bring him so much headache? He can solve complicated calculus and play with math formulas but as soon as he faces the real world with its independence he shrinks to a three-years-old basis.

"Ya cannot pay with coins, kiddo," the man says and points one of his fingers to a card hanging in the ceiling. "It's either credit cards or traveling cards, nothin' else."

Near starts playing more violently with his hair. "But why is that?"

"Thieves, No one's safe for these creeps, I tell you that. That's why. Are ya gonna pay? I haven't all day."

Sweat drips down Near's face and he knows it's because of excitability and not the temperature. This is just beyond pathetic. He can't even pay for a bus-ride. No wonder the other students in his class treat him like some kind of tool you can ignore, since he will never be like them.

"I neither have a credit card or a traveling card," Near explains in a tone that makes him sure he will be thrown out of the bus before the next blink.

He is right. Near is often right. Sometimes this is a blessing but right now it is a curse.

"Well, no cards, no trip, get your little ass out of here."

Near says nothing, since his shame does the talking for him. He is rather immune—so he thinks—to normal feelings like friendship and love, feelings you have for others, but shame and disappointment—for himself—are rather common feelings. Perhaps that is understandable, when everything you do is for yourself and your improvement you only see your own mistakes, not others.

The biggest dilemma right now is to explain this to his teacher. _Excuse me, mrs Smith, but I failed to pay for the bus and couldn't rent the book from the library_. It sounds so completely wrong. He can't say that.

"I can pay," Near later hears and firstly he doesn't believe it—why would someone help him with his silly little problems, but said person gets the attention of the driver, so Near gets that this is no hallucination. But what exactly is it?

Near looks at the person and sees that it isn't anyone he has seen before. The man—boy?—is rather tall, dressed in black leather that seems to glow in the dim light in the bus and has a hairstyle cut like a woman, with blond bangs falling around the sharp face. It is definitely not a person to mess around with—not that Near has any ability with such things—and maybe that's why the driver accept the offer without any comments. Near hugs his fingers together, trying dearly to spit out a 'thank you' but nothing comes—he just watches the blond pick out his credit card from his wallet with nothing to say and nothing to give.

Well, at least he has his ride now.

The blond moves away and slides into his seat once more, giving Near passage to walk further in the buss. Here—among the massive hordes of people staring at him like he was some kind of animal—the next problem arises. There's no free seats anywhere. Not a surprise really—since it is in the middle of the day and the rainy weather doesn't welcome strolls around town—but since Near often get unwell in cars or bus, standing doesn't seem like a good option.

How can it be so hard to be normal? It never fails to confuse him.

People in general learns how to act like the social code, trains from the beginning to the end and somewhere in the dance of normality Near lost track and followed his own. It was not advantageous for him.

Why can't it be easy to—

A hand grabbing his collar interrupts his mental rumination and drags him to the only free seat in the bus. Near finds himself be pushed into the seat, feeling like a ragdoll and stares blankly forward, both in embarrassment for being saved by a stranger in situations _no one _needs to be saved from and confusion as the blond does not seem like the one to help strangers if he doesn't get anything for it. Near carefully looks at him again and wonders how he does to make those gray eyes so _alive_.

Near's eyes look dead.

He folds his hands together, squirms backwards at the discomfort to not be able to sit like he normally does and uses his every inch of brainpower to come up with something to say.

Because you should speak if you sit with someone, right? Or has he failed to understand the code once more?

"Um, thank you for paying," Near says, knows he doesn't sound very grateful but it is something and something is better than nothing.

"Don't think about it."

"What is your name?" Near continues, trying so hard to be polite. "My name is Near."

"Mello," Mello says bluntly, so short Near understands he isn't the one for small-talk with strangers.

Or small-talk with him.

But Near should talk, isn't that what everyone says, that he should be more social? It is. And isn't it wise to start with strangers, the one he will never see again?

"Nice weather today," he says, with is the most stupid statement today as raindrops snake down the window pain, mix with the dirt, becoming brown. Mello just stares at him, before fishing up a bar of chocolate in his right hand.

"Listen, don't talk to me if you don't want to, it's just fucking annoying. You don't have to talk to people, Near, forget that," Mello says and unwraps the foil from his chocolate.

Near doesn't know why but Mello's speech makes him somewhat happy. Maybe it isn't something he should follow, but it makes him glad that he isn't the only one with these thoughts.

Not the only one.

The next ten minutes pass in silence but it is not an uncomfortable silence, more of the one that is only there—not uninvited. The extreme temperature isn't kind to Mello's chocolate, though, it melts faster than he can eat and the brown chocolate drips down his slender fingers.

Near can live with this. It feels okay. It really feels okay. He watches the buildings pass by in the rabid moment, sees the people, sees the trees and wonders for himself how he can feel so safe in some moments and not in others. Maybe that is life in a nutshell, with his unfamiliarity to live it isn't a surprise.

Suddenly, though, another thing happens that breaks his everyday schedule.

The thing is a rapid deceleration.

Maybe there's a cat in the way, maybe it is a missed passenger, either way, the bus uses its every force to let the friction take the lead. The sudden break leads to a massive force forward and the second Near feels the bus gain balance again he notices that his face is filled with warm chocolate.

It is a peculiar feeling.

"Fuck," Mello says and flicks his golden hair, before bringing up his sleeve of his jacket to remove the chocolate from Near's face.

Near shakes his head. "It is not necessary, Mello. The next station is my destination and I can locate a restroom there."

"Hell no. You can't roam around looking like that," Mello replies and presses the button on his right side, watching a light turn bright.

That comment almost makes Near smile and he licks away some of the chocolate from his pale lips. "I am capable of washing away the chocolate myself," he says and gets dumbfounded when he sees Mello grin.

"For a reason I don't believe that," he says and gives Near's back a light shove, pushing him out of the oven called bus, away from all the staring passengers.

It has stopped raining now and Near asks: "Why do you do this for me, Mello?" and it's not a question for his ego, but for his mind.

"Because I want to lick off the chocolate from your face," he replies and Near feels his blood rush straight to his snow-pale skin.

"Are you serious?"

Mello blinks and steers his boots to the closest restroom. "Maybe," he says.

—|—

to be countined


	6. Chocolate

**Love and Hate**

—|—

VI

Chocolate

Mello had the ability to walk in without knocking.

To walk in in others' personal spheres and tear them apart to shreds. Like he was allowed to (and in his world he probably was.)

Near let one of his fingers push one train in the back—the newest one in his collection—and made it run across the trail, in all the silent concentration no one (but L) understood, wanted to understand and for Near it was okay. He couldn't wish for more, he learned that before he learned walking. He just had to take what he had.

That meant that he had to take that Mello slammed up the door and destroyed the perfect tranquility with his rashness and loud footsteps, it was like watching someone break a sculpture and the pieces rained from the sky.

Mello, he did not search for the answer for an equation, he changed the equation instead. Near admired that, as much as he could admire anything at all.

Come and go, Mello was still there.

"Hello, Mello, are you searching for something?" Near asked dully, not bothering to look up from his sculpture of train racks and legos and puzzle pieces—you just knew when Mello was behind you.

"Maybe I am," Mello replied, sounding more calm than usual, which made Near feel slighty uneasy.

Mello wanted something.

Near could only guess what. It was funny that their relationship always—always—turned out this way. Near just had to try to follow, there was nothing else to do if he didn't want to be punched right in the face.

"And what is is that Mello wants?" Near continued, because it would come out sooner or later and it was always better to run while the iron was hot.

Mello took a few steps forward and Near felt forced to turn around from his beloved toys and see Mello in the eyes. He looked like always, all dressed in black, blond bangs colored like honey framing his face, which his trustful chocolate bars in his hands. The only difference—which made something fall in Near's body like a stone—was that he looked…relaxed. No clenched teeth, no wrinkled nose, nothing. He just stood there and this would probably be worse than the other things combined.

Mello narrowed his sharp eyes slightly, moving his black nails through the hair before letting his pink tongue run over the chocolate in a way that made Near shiver like he was sitting in a freezer.

No, Near, you can't feel this way, you don't feel anything, no Near you—

Ignorance was like pulling fuel in the fire, it would blossom.

Mello had a uncanny way of making everyone want to be on his good side—and Near was not a exception, although he was a exception to almost everything else.

"I knew it," Mello simply said with that sinister grin and lowered his head until their eyes met.

Near said nothing. He didn't know what to say.

"You think you are so smart, that you are so different but you aren't," Mello told him and clipped with his eyes, once. Near bit his lips together. "Fuck, you want me."

Mello surely didn't know the true spiritual meaning of the words "go too far". Or chose to ignore it completely, which was not something uncommon about him.

"Well, that's your opinion," Near said meekly and moved a finger to his hair, twirling it in an—useless—attempt to buy more time. "Besides," he continued, "I don't understand Mello's reason with this, as he hates me."

"Don't third person me, twit," Mello hissed, sounding more like his original self. "I have a surprise for you."

For belivable reasons, Near disliked the sound of that one. With Mello's taste of sadistic terror, it was probably something that would give Near nightmares for three weeks. Hopefully, it would end soon though.

"I'm ready," Near whispered, which he wasn't.

"Good for you," Mello replied and shoved the chocolate bar in Near's mouth.

First, Near was dumfounded. Since his brain worked strategically and logically, he couldn't trust his ability to change with the surroundings, he had to analyze what he had. What did Mello mean with this? Should he eat the chocolate? Should he—

"Fucking hell, how stupid are you? Just eat the damn chocolate!"

Mello placed his fingers around the bar and lifted it so it was easier for Near to chew without worrying about chocolate stains on his beloved pajama. Near was not too fond of chocolate, he didn't like sweet things but this one was fairly good. The cacao beans filled his palate and were as strong as he could feel sensation, but not dislike. It was rather warm in Near's room—as he liked it to be—and it made the chocolate melt before he could swallow.

Mello didn't bother asking if Near liked it, as Mello was not someone you criticized, at least if you wanted to keep all the teeth in your mouth. He simply removed it and placed it on the ground, glaring with his piercing eyes.

Oh no, what if Near _still _did something to upset him?

The next tour of action made him reconsider his whole view of things, though, as Mello placed his cold hands around Near's cheeks and leaned as close that Near could feel his breath.

What was this?

"M—M—Mello, what are you doing?" Near stuttered, which was weird, as he never stuttered normally.

"What do you think, stupid?" Mello asked. "That was my chocolate and I'm not gonna give everything to you." With that said, Mello kissed him.

One hundred emotions ran through him at that time, some which told him to push Mello away and run, others that told him to sit where he was, while parts didn't even make any sense. Mello was a harsh kisser, it did not hurt, but close enough. It was wet, it was warm, mixed with the chocolate essence. Blood bubbled inside Near, spinning, turning—he didn't know where to go.

_He didn't want it to end. _

Chocolate and Mello, the mix was highly enjoyable.

But (too) soon, it did end. Mello gave him a slight shove and got up on his two thin legs, not bothering to pick up the nearly eaten chocolate bar from the floor.

Mello didn't know how to remain at one place, which told Near that this was probably nothing real to him.

Or was it?

"Mello," he started before Mello reached the doorknob, "did you… enjoy the kiss?"

Mello threw a look over his right shoulder with narrowed eyes. "What the hell do you _think_?" he fumed before walking out, slamming the door in a good-bye manner.

Near lifted his finger to his hair again and considered Mello's question.

"Um, yes?"

—|—

to be countined


	7. Fanfiction

NA: Mello, Mello, Mello, why are you so jealous? :)

Also, I don't know about this. Hope you like it, I don't know about me.

* * *

><p><strong>Love and Hate<strong>

[7]

Fanfiction

—

Mello comes in uninvited on a Thursday. Not that the Thursdays do differ from the originality, Near just chooses to place this piece of information on the rack in his mind anyway.

"What are you doing?" Mello asks after he has closed the door firmly, looking at Near with curiosity in his eyes, as Near is not sitting on the floor surrounded by train racks, but at the desk with a pensile in hand.

"Writing," Near answers, as if _that _answers to everything Mello demands to know.

It is interesting how possessive he is—how every inch of Near's thoughts needs to be revealed if Near didn't want a punch in his face.

"I can see that, dumbass. What are you writing?"

Near hides a smile behind the pensile, and continues to let the graphite color the white paper in ugly—his handwriting leaves much to be desired—letters.

"Fanfiction," Near tells him before turning around on the spinn_able _chair. Mello simply stares. He must be familiar with the concept of fanfiction, it is more the unlikelihood of someone like Near wasting time with those.

"Oh yeah? With a pairing?"

"Yes."

Even more unlikely. Near writing a romance fic? What is the world coming to? Near knows that he is not as romantically—or sexually—active as Mello would want, so this may be a big lump in his throat to swallow.

"Who are the victims?" For Mello, someone working after Near's pen must be victims. Little does he know that writing romance and experience romance are two different things. Near likes Mello in own way, which means that despite his inability to please Mello doesn't mean he doesn't know what love is. Love is complicated, probably for someone like Mello too, for everyone.

"L and Light," Near explains and can hardy keep his thin lips in a straight line.

Instead of dropping his expression, Mello takes the opportunity to dig in his pants for chocolate, which is probably wise at the moment. "L? You mean—our L?"

"I do not know many other Ls in this world," Near says dryly. "Despite that, I think they are a hot couple."

"Wait, wait, wait," Mello objects, waving with his foiled chocolate. "Fuck, did you really use the word 'hot?'"

Near rolls with his eyes and tucks his knee closer to his chin. "Yes, I did."

"Wow. Oh, and you chose to write about _them_? Them and not us? What a bastard you are."

"Why would I write about us? L and Light are not cannon, which I assume is favorable for both. We are not interesting to write about. They are."

"Why?"

"Because one—they enjoy each other's company. You have seen them, you cannot object. And two—Light Yagami's persona is very different from our L's own, which, I presume, is something that can make a relationship blossom."

"Idiot, you know nothing of these things!"

"Why not?"

"Because—dammit, love is not like you think it is."

"Mello is just frustrated because I chose to write about L and light instead of you and me."

"Well, yeah. Maybe I'd like to think that my _boyfriend _is more interested in his _boyfriend _than squealing like a fucking fangirl for a couple that doesn't exist!"

"I don't squeal like a fangirl."

"Fucking hell, take irony!"

"Please, Mello," Near mumbles and tries to reach for Mello's arms, but fails, as the blond is too far away. "It is not necessary for you to be jealous—"

"I'm not jealous," he hisses and squishes the chocolate bar in hand until strings of melted chocolate pours out from cracks in the foil, over his hands. "Fine, I give up. I hope you bloody murder Light, in a satisfying way in that piece of shit."

"No, Mello," Near shrugs, not getting anywhere with this. "If there is nothing else Mello wishes from me he can leave if he—"

"Fuck no, I want to read it," Mello snaps, moving his legs to the messy desk, lifting the piece of paper to the air.

"Ah."

"I bet you made Light sounding out of character," Mello says and to Near's delight placing his hands in Near's locks of hair.

Mello is angry. Near doesn't know where he has him. Mello leaves and he comes back. Near just sits there, with a romantic mind that is not enough for Mello.

But he tries. Mello, Near tries. Sometimes, he can't do more than that.

"What is Light Yagami for you, then?"

"A complete, fucking bastard."

"Well, then he _is _out of character."

Mello sits down on the blue carpet, blond fringe falling in his eye like a curtain on a windy day, and he takes the paper in both hands and reads it.

—

_For Light this is surreal. How did it come to this, how did this evolve into something that can be described with this peculiar feeling, the feeling of need, the feeling of thirst? Light does not know._

_He wants more. He wants everything L doesn't seem to give him. _

"_L," Light says, pulling out his hands to let fingers comb through soft raven hair, "I'm sick of this. Really—I am. You said yesterday that my persona irritated you, because I often let my temper take over, but not now. I need you, I don't lie to you now."_

"_How can I know such a thing, Light-kun?" L asks, but doesn't pull away, instead, pale, soft lips touches rosier one, warm, and Light opens his mouth to let L in, to taste the warmth, taste what Light has._

"_What?"_

"_You are skilled at lying, Light-kun," L manages to say between kisses, "that—you do understand that lying once makes it difficult to believe you."_

"_Yeah, I know," Light says and lets his warm hands slide down L's neck to his shoulders, nestle there, L's warm, sweets-scented breath in the face. "But this—"_

—

"For hell, Near, I can't believe it," Mello says and bits off a piece of warm chocolate with his teeth. "This is fucking passionate."

Maybe it is. That's how Near imagines their relationship, with a will to fight, to capture the interior struggles they have, much like Near and Mello but still different. Mello will not see that—he always takes everything for a challenge, which is something that makes their own relationship extremely complicated—and extremely amusing.

"Hey," Mello says and stands up again, getting closer, dropping the chocolate on the cold floor in timing with Near's gut. "I have an idea."

"Yes?"

"You are L and I am Light, let's do your fic," Mello explains, curling his lips to an evil smile that Near doesn't like the slightest.

What has he done?

"Mello, I don't think—mgh", Near says as Mello bows down to kiss him.

"'L, I'm sick of this'," Mello quotes with the most girlish voice he can uphold. "Really—I am. Now, I _demand _you to kiss me, L, or else I will go emo and cry in a corner because I'm such a sissy and wimpish and—"

"Mello, I never wrote that," Near says after Mello has stopped kissing him, still with a layer of chocolate left in his mouth to taste.

"I know," Mello says softly—softly?—and gives Near another kiss, harsher this time, but for some reason Near enjoys the sudden change. "And I more for improvisations anyway."

"Did you—Did you enjoy my writing?" Near says, although he is not much for forcing out compliments from anyone—at least not from Mello. But still Mello is different now, softer, more caring, a side Near didn't know existed.

"Yeah," Mello breathes, which makes Near's skin tingle. "But next time."

"Yes?"

"Write about us, for God's sake."

There's a hidden meaning in the sentence and Near catches it.

"I will try, Mello, but I'm still me."

Mello laughs and ruffles his head. "Hell, are you calling me stupid? I _know _that. I want that. I hate you sometimes, but—yeah, I still want you as you are."

"Oh. Thank you."

"Whatever. Now, _L, _will you not obey your lovely Light-kun and roll around in bed with me?" Mello asks, with an extremely out of character-giggle to prove his point.

"Mello…"

—

to be continued


	8. Sinner

**Love and Hate**

VIII

Sinner

.

Mello curls his neck until he's reached Near's level. "Near," he growls, "you're having doubts."

"No," Near says, but the opposite slips through his monotone—he does not have doubts, per say, but he doesn't know where he's heading, where _they're _heading, and what it will be. What it can be.

No one really knows, and if Near does not possess the layouts of the rest of his life, he adventures his logical sanity, the structure that keeps him above the surface.

Without it, he will soon drown. And Mello doesn't plan to save him from his self-made doom—he will take Near down with him.

He surely enjoys toying with fate to his degree. "You're a bad liar, Near," Mello tells him and places his hand flat on the birth of Near's leg, sliding over to the calve, upwards and feeling the skin on his thigh, the only place where child-fat still finger—overall he's thin as a rake. "You think I'm just fooling around with you."

_Which is a logical outcome of logical reasoning, _Mello admits. Since when is Mello serious about such a petty thing as romance? Romance is so thin in itself, it can grow and it can die, trusting is putting everything aside and live solely for pleasure alone, a pleasure that hangs in a thin thread, so easily breakable. Mello never states his affairs as "romance", for that's not what they are, and if Near believes this to be different he's foolish and naïve.

Near is neither. "Is Mello going somewhere with his train of thought?" he asks instead and stretches out his leg so that Mello has greater access to the soft skin. "Does Mello find it amusing to confuse me?"

Mello stops sliding his hand and let it leave the warmth and seek cool air. "Confuse? Fuck, that's not what this is about. I'm trying to make you understand what this is, for God's sake."

"Interesting," Near replies and moves his upper-body up from his laying position. "May I kiss you now?"

Mello gapes. This is not like Near, this is not like him at all. "The hell is wrong with you? Don't you know what I'm getting at?"

"Perhaps," Near continues and plays absently with his milky locks and spins them like thin threads around fingertips. "I'll never fully comprehend why Mello finds pleasure from my body. I desire to know what Mello search with this relationship. The difference is that I don't crave these answers in order for this to be enjoyable for me."

Mello almost snickers. Enjoyable. Typical Near-way to describe things, as if humans were his toys. Toys and tolls to use to create his own fantasy world where rules were his alone. "I'm giving you time to think about this, here, shouldn't you be more grateful?"

"No. I do not wish to think about it. I wish to do it in your way—go forward. Not thinking, not reasoning. Just once. Please, let me do that. For that, you'll have my eternal gratitude."

"I don't want that."

"What does Mello want, then?"

Mello likes to think he doesn't look forward to this side of Near. That he only takes what he has. But that's a lie, it's never true, for the truth is really simple—it's not only about him. It's about them. It can't be solely about him. For in order for this to function, in order for Mello to receive something from Near on a more emotional level, it needs to be them both.

"There are many things I want," Mello says cryptically.

"If it does not involve a lecture, I'm willing to participle in your activities."

Mello tousles his fingers in Near's white curls, digs them in and pulls his head closer, before slamming his lips over Near's in a heated kiss. It doesn't take long before Near comply, his lips cool and frozen, sipping inside like poison, strangely tasteless and strangely addictive. "In that case, moron, let's warm up my bed, shall we?"

"Yes," Near replies, curls his lips upwards, and clings on when Mello lifts him up and carries him to the bedroom.

Somehow, it feels wonderful to be a sinner.

To be _wrong_.

.


End file.
